


Mirrors and Dust

by The Hag (hagsrus)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-25
Updated: 2010-05-25
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hagsrus/pseuds/The%20Hag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for The Tea and Swiss Roll Weekly Obbo Challenge #46(B): Support<br/>May 2010</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirrors and Dust

"Got it!" proclaimed Doyle triumphantly from above. "No, hang about, there's more. Regular warehouse up here!"

"Hurry it up, mate, you weigh a bloody ton," Bodie complained as his partner, balanced on his shoulders, searched the tinkling, dusty crystals of the chandelier and dropped packages of suspicious substance to the dustier floor. "Can't expect me to support you forever, you know."

He tried to keep his eyes on Doyle's bare feet, on the denim-clad calves that his hands were steadying, away from the overwhelming distraction of the faceted multi-coloured mirrors that covered the walls and ceiling of the former Palais de Dance, which had become the Palais de Disco, currently the Palais de Bankrupt. Conspiring with the fragmented flashes Doyle's search provoked from their gaudy counterparts in the chandelier, the mirrors tossed back a deluge of images that tormented his peripheral vision, threatening to overwhelm his sight with an infinity of Doyles from every conceivable viewpoint.

Reflections were a handy surveillance resource: car mirrors, windows, bottles, drinking glasses, spoons. Bodie had watched reflections of Doyle for years when a direct look was impractical. Now he sometimes coaxed Doyle in front of a mirror, curiously intrigued by the sight of his own body involved with Doyle's, a kind of confirmation that he could indeed claim some kind of possession, yet ultimately unsatisfying. Only a beautiful picture....

Doyle's feet were not the flattened plates traditionally associated with a beat-walking copper. He cared for them meticulously and they returned the favour. Bodie was all for it: if nothing else, the rituals of pedicure contorted Doyle into positions that were a treat to the eye.

Ticklish, those feet. Bodie's tongue sliding between the long toes, beneath the elegant arches, could reduce him to hysterics in seconds. Bodie had speculated aloud on the possibility of a little bondage to see what would happen in the course of a prolonged session. Doyle had retorted that if shrimping was the most interesting idea he could come up with in the unlikely event of any of that lark, Bodie needed an instruction manual. "Write it meself, be sure it's accurate. None of them weird oriental translations. 'To assure lover joyous pleads, often change of batters and not immerse in wet water with great very caution,'" he had quoted, a passage gleefully memorized from the wrapping of a toy Anson had once acquired and carelessly left where the squad could find it. Any incautious lapse in sexual privacy was fair game. Bodie flinched from the thought.

"Knew it! Guns!" The next five packages clattered. Denim rubbed against Bodie's cheek as Doyle craned to rummage further, and Bodie tightened his steadying grip. The smell of the cloth was mixed with the day's accumulation of sweat, a dimension of reality no mirror could present.

Doyle's interest in mirror games was slight but he indulged Bodie from time to time. Last day off he had made him the gift of a classic image, kneeling before Bodie, both fully dressed, his hands unzipping and freeing Bodie from his cords, letting Bodie position them so that he could feast on the sight of Doyle's mouth working on his cock. Doyle had cupped and fondled his balls, one long finger working inward. Bodie's hands had been filled with the mass of Doyle's hair and the hard skull beneath that the mirror could not see. He had slumped back against the wall, scarcely able to stay focussed on the final moments of Doyle absorbing his frantic thrusts, the bobbing of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, his eyes meeting Bodie's in the mirror, that knowing, complicit gaze....

The crystals chimed and tinkled. Dust stirred and drifted, tickling Bodie's sinuses.

"Sneeze," he managed to warn Doyle, and convulsed helplessly. Doyle grabbed at one of the structural rings of the chandelier, dangling. Bodie knew Doyle could fall catlike with little more than a jolt and was astonished by his unwonted need to spare him even that, absurdly relieved to find it unnecessary. "You all right?" He resumed his supporting role of stepladder. Doyle's renewed weight on his shoulders and the solidity of his calves safely within his grasp conjured a warm exultation. He realised suddenly that Doyle's gaze that last time had invited his complicity in something more than erotic delight, something deeper, sweeter....

"Can't you keep your organs under control? Good and strong, this." Doyle tugged approvingly at the supporting chains. "There's a revolving light set-up too, here in the middle, tie your eyeballs in knots when it's up and running. Brought Claire here once, but it was all a bit much. Let's see if they stashed anything there." He rummaged again. "No, that's the lot that I can see. Coming down, ground floor, frilly knickers, gents' natty suiting, French ticklers, plastic wedding rings."

He had spread his leather jacket on the dusty floor to stand on while he took off his socks and boots; now he wriggled his toes luxuriously in the fleecy lining. "Ever have it away on a sheepskin rug? Bird I knew once--big open fireplace, the lot. Got a bit toasted one side, though. Could have done with a turntable."

Bodie took Doyle's waist between his hands, as far as his fingers could span. Doyle barefoot, himself booted, the difference in height was enough to make Doyle tilt his face upward, flecked with shifting rainbows from the still stirring crystals, changing with light and mood, always changing, always...

"You," Bodie said inanely.

...Always Doyle.

Doyle's lips twitched in comprehension and the rainbows fluttered over his eyes.

"You," Bodie repeated. A demand. A question. A plea.

"Like it or lump it, sunshine." Doyle's answer was everything. "Mind my feet. Give us a kiss and let's get out of here."

The mirrors echoed them to infinite distance, and here at their centre Doyle was unique and solid, briefly responsive, then, duty recalled, he pushed Bodie away and squatted to pull on his socks.

A bubble of elation growing in his chest, Bodie looked up at the murky crystals. "Fancy coming back later and see if we can get it all going? Always wondered about the swinging from the chandelier bit."

"Too much like hard work, mate." Doyle's teeth flashed in a responsive grin. "Never could fathom the logistics. How could you get any traction?" He reached for his shoes. "Besides, not much point if we couldn't tell anyone, is there? Talk a bird into it, you could boast your head off and the mob would be buying you drinks for weeks!" He stood up, fully shod, shaking his jacket free of dust and shrugging into it. "If they believed you." He stooped to gather up the chandelier's largesse.

"Getting old and stodgy, that's your trouble," Bodie teased. "No adventure left."

"Yeah, well, let's go back to your place and try it in front of the radiator on your tatty bedspread. Fetch the mirror in from the bedroom if you like. Here, grab some of this lot, will you?"

Bodie cast a final glance upwards. "You're on," he agreed pragmatically. A Doyle on the rug was worth a thousand on the chandelier and new adventure was suddenly imminent.

Who needed mirrors?

The infinity of abandoned paths and possibilities glittered and shimmered and stilled behind him as he followed his warm heart and centre, his one Doyle, knowing and complicit, illuminated with newly focussed clarity, out into the sober daylight.


End file.
